Debts
by kysis-the-bard
Summary: Vigil's Keep is in shambles when Warden Commander Cousland takes control, and he will do whatever it takes to rebuild. What none of them expects is for a daring rogue in a prison cell to pull a dagger on the Warden Commander, or the confrontation to follow. Told from Anders' POV. Part of a bigger fic-coming soon.


**Disclaimer:** I do not own Dragon Age or the characters who appear in the series; that's Bioware and their affiliates. I also make no money by making this or posting it. It's for fun.

**Warnings:** dark themes, violence, post-traumatic stress, the like. You know, shit that's in the games anyway. Also, me messing with scenes which appeared in the game, because I have creative license and wonder how they could have gone differently.

**Author's Note:** During Awakening. Cousland (named Lance, because I don't like the name Aedan) has been named Warden Commander. From Anders' point of view. I'm playing around with a lot of stuff, here, and getting a feel for Dragon Age in a writing sense. Also, this fic totally ran away with me.

**AN2:** This will fit into a larger fic which is coming in the near future. Just an FYI.

**DEBTS**

It was as though the air itself had been sucked forcibly from the room, leaving a void all were fearful to disturb. Anders held his breath, eyes drawn to the glint of highly polished silverite. Everyone in the room must have been looking at that blade, at the bared neck it was pointed directly at—everyone but the Warden Commander whose neck it was.

Lance was still, still like the air, and yet it was not out of fear. Anders could feel himself perspiring, but there was not a drop on Lance. He was just standing there, head held high, blue eyes colder than the water of Lake Calenhad in the full of winter. His lips were drawn in a thin line, showing nothing.

How the prisoner—Nathaniel Howe, he think he heard—had gotten ahold of a dagger, who knew, but the guards had better be cleaning their hindsides and preparing some damned good excuses to save themselves. At least that's what he'd be doing.

"The Wardens killed me father." Nathaniel spoke the words with some edge, Anders would give him that, but there was a slight wobble to his voice. He was probably regretting that little move now. "These were his lands before they were given to the Wardens."

Nathaniel's hand shook. Everyone saw it. Maybe not Lance; Lance was looking Nathaniel right in the eyes, and if looks from non-mages could kill…

Lance took half a step forward.

The blade slid. Anders gasped. Oghren tensed a bit. His axe was in hand, though it wouldn't do any of them much good. There was only a thin red line, a scratch, but now the blade was pressed firmly to his neck, in perfect killing position, all Nathaniel would have to do is flick his wrist and it'd be over.

"And your _father_…" Lance paused, letting the word hang on the air, "slaughtered my entire family. My mother. My father. My sister by marriage. My nephew. All of them."

All the color just vanished from Nathaniel's face. It was a wonder he didn't faint. A good thing, too, because the force of his fall might have slit Lance's throat. They wouldn't have noticed at first, though. They were all riveted.

In the short time they'd all been there together, Lance had never mentioned a family. For that matter, had hadn't really said much of anything. He was very sparse with his words. If it didn't have to be said, it wouldn't be. This was the most Anders had ever heard him talk, to say the least.

"My nephew, Oren, he was nearly seven. Before my brother left to Ostagar, Oren asked him for a sword." Lance wet his lips. His jaw trembled, little quakes. If it were any quieter, Ander bet they could have heard his teeth grinding. "And my brother said not to worry. He'd see one up close, real soon. That night, he was murdered with one."

Nathaniel shook his head, moving just a breath back. Lance was immediately filling that space. He was taller than Nathaniel, imposing even with his helm removed, dark hair loose around his face. He was unafraid, too, because he kept that knife right there at his throat like an invitation and a question all at once.

"My father was not an indiscriminant killer. He was not a murderer."

"Tell that to my brother, who lost his wife and son that night."

"Why would he target your family? He had no reason—"

"You don't recognize me, do you?" Lance's brows pulled in, a crease formed between them. He reached up slowly, pulling his hair back. Nathaniel didn't blink, didn't move. He didn't seem to connect any dots, either. "Cousland. My father was Teryn Bryce Cousland."

Oh. _Oh_. Anders couldn't take his eyes off Lance, now. He'd never known. None of them had. Oghren still didn't seem to know, or didn't care. Everyone in Ferelden, at least in a settlement of any size (which wasn't dwarven or Dalish), knew who the Couslands were. Anyone up north knew who Lance Cousland was. The younger son. Kind. Caring. Bright. The heir.

What had happened?

Slowly, shakily, Nathaniel started to lower his dagger. Anders didn't even see it. There was a blur. Andraste's knickers, he didn't even really see a blur.

Nathaniel was on the ground, heaving for breath, the dagger in Lance's hand.

"Do you have a death wish?!" Nathaniel sounded pretty angry, though the effect was a bit lost, seeing as he was on his knees, panting, and clutching his gut.

Lance just tossed the dagger down on the floor before him, turned, and left. Just like that. Like nothing had happened. Like that question wasn't going to start festering in all of them. And it did. It really did.


End file.
